


Drunk Girl—Part 2

by claitynroberts



Series: Drunk Girl [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crack, F/M, Fluff, NOLA, New Orleans, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 15:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15076205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claitynroberts/pseuds/claitynroberts





	Drunk Girl—Part 2

Dean POV

Walking away from her that night was difficult. She obviously needed to release her frustrations, however I wasn’t going to take advantage of her inebriated state. As I was telling her about my life, well the parts that wouldn’t exactly scare away a civilian, she had fallen fast asleep. From the puffiness and the bruise like circles adorning the hollows below her eyes, I could tell she clearly hadn’t slept much over the last few days. 

As she began to snore lightly, I pulled the sheet and ratty comforter up over her shoulder, tucking her in for the night. Looking around the dated room I noticed her stuff was everywhere. Clothes on the floor, keys dropped by the bed, shoes resting by opposite walls. Silently, I moved the canvas duffle bag over to the closet alcove, arranging her shoes beneath it and hanging the worn leather jacket on the metal rack. After everything was righted and no longer strewn around the room as if in the aftermath of a tornado, I gazed down at her for a moment. 

She was truly beautiful. Her hair was a dark chocolate brown, her skin naturally tanned and glowing in the soft light streaming in the window from the motel sign out front. This woman was a fighter, and I couldn’t help but picture how well she would fit into our world. It haunts me how I can't stop imagining how well she would fit into my life. No, I thought, I would never force this way of life on someone who had a choice. 

Snapping myself out of my daze, I went out to the Impala to retrieve an extra cell phone. Locating a motel issued notepad and pen by the phone, I quickly scrawled my name and number, leaving it and the old burner phone beside the lamp. 

If I were a decent guy, I wouldn’t have left my contact information. I would have disappeared into the night, saving the evening’s previous events for my daydreams. She would be safer that way. Nothing good ever comes from having a Winchester in your life. But I never claimed to be a decent guy.

—————

Sammy and I left out early that morning for a job a few miles over the state line in Mississippi. The case originally was a simple salt and burn, although the ghost put up one hell of a fight. We burnt the body past recognition, but it’s spirit still lingered, meaning it was attached to something else. We just had to figure out what.

As Sammy was rifling through the antique furniture looking for whatever object it had decided to use as an anchor, I was swinging away at the spectral form with an iron crowbar playing whack-a-ghost. I had run out of rock salt loads ages ago. 

As the ghost flickered back into sight across the room, my cell began to ring. Quickly I shoved my hand into my pocket and clicked the home button, effectively ignoring the call. The ghost began to shuffle closer, flickering in and out like a lightbulb with a short circuit. As she neared, the room began to become heady with a sickly sweet smell. The slight decay all ghosts carry with them was cloying, but something else was underlying it. Something...flowery. It reminded me of the sweet aroma that would waft in my bedroom windows on a cool summer night. “Lilac!” I yelled.

“What?!” Came Sam’s bewildered call from across the room.

“Sam, the smell. It’s lilac!”

“Yeah, so?” He hollered as he tore through a chest of drawers. “I don’t think now is the time for a damn botany lesson, Dean,” he replied sarcastically.

The ghost darted at me, and I swung toward the left. She disappeared.

“Lilac is used in perfume,” I began to explain as I whirled around, attempting to keep her in my sights. “The smell—,” the ghost popped up to my right just barely in my line of vision. I swung for the fences. “It appeared when she did.”

“You think she’s tied to a perfume bottle?” He asked as he kept rummaging like a pack rat.

I glanced up in the mirror above the fireplace in time to see her appear directly behind me. “It’s worth a shot!” I dropped below her mangled hands and spun around, clipping her ankles with the crowbar. She disappeared into a cloud of ghostly black smoke as she let out a frustrated, blood curdling scream. “She won’t be gone long,” I called over to Sam.

I opened the top of the dressing table on the opposite side of the room. Inside an antique silver toiletry set was lined up in perfect symmetry—brush, comb, mirror… Toward the top, next to a porcelain dish sat an ornate silver perfume bottle. Picking it up I squeezed the puffer thing, emitting a fine spray of flowery liquid matching the smell in the room. “Sam, I got it.”

He quickly moved to the fireplace and began building a small fire. The ghost appeared behind him, ready to tear his throat out. “Sammy,” I bellowed in warning as I dropped the bottle and swung at her with the crowbar. She blocked the attack and sent me flying toward the wall before she flung Sam in the other direction, pinning him against it and bringing her sharp claws up to his throat. 

Groaning, I scrambled toward the discarded bottle. My fingers clasped around the smooth silver container as I launched it at the fireplace and into the waiting flames. In a burst of fiery light and a bone shattering scream she vanished. The room became brighter and the air cleared of the overwhelming stench of lilac and decay.

I dropped to the floor as Sam slid down the wall coughing. “Good riddance, bitch,” I grumbled as I closed my eyes and tried to will away the pain in my limbs from the supernatural launch I received moments before.

Once the equipment was packed up and back in the trunk of the car, we headed back west towards New Orleans. Around mid afternoon while stopping for gas, I remembered the phone had rang while I was striking out with the ghost in Mississippi. Checking the screen, I recognized the number as the extra burner phone I had left for the young woman. I clicked on her voicemail. “Hey Dean, this is Claityn, th-the girl from last night…,” her voice began. It was soft and melodic, like wind chimes clinking in the light summer breeze. Her tone was timid almost and tinged with a slight whiskey rasp, though I knew she hadn’t been drinking that early in the morning.

Leaning up against the warm metal of the impala’s sleek onyx exterior, and against better judgement, I called her back. The line rang. And rang. And rang. Part of me hoped she wouldn’t pick up; life would be so much easier if I could break contact and move on. As that part of me began to swell with satisfaction that maybe she decided to leave me as a late night fantasy, the line clicked on. “Hello,” a bright airy voice filled the speaker of my phone.

I could hear the smile in her voice. “Hello, gorgeous.” I felt myself unconsciously reacting to her over the phone, my bruised and battered body echoing hers from miles away. A smile split my face as I continued, “What are you doing tonight?”

She chuckled, bright and beautiful with the promise of all things good wrapped up in it. “Not a damn thing,” came her reply.

“Great. Listen, I was called out on a job in Mississippi early this morning, but I should be back to NOLA in a few hours.” I was rambling. This never happens. I cleared my throat and trudged on, “anyway, I was thinking maybe you’d like to meet up when I get back?” My palm found the back of my neck, rubbing it profusely as I kicked at the pebbles in the parking lot. “Not like a date or anything, but we could get some food and a couple drinks. Maybe some pie—.”

“I’d love to,” she cut me off. 

“Awesome. Cool. I’ll uh—I’ll pick you up around eight?”

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” she said, and I swear my heart nearly burst with relief. Shit...I had it bad.

“Sweet, well I’ll—I’ll see you later I guess.”

“See ya...Dean.” And she disconnected.

I stared dumbfoundedly at my phone. Hearing the convenience store door open and close, I glanced up and saw Sammy walking toward me and the car. He gave me a look, brows furrowed and lips pursed; the one he shoots me when he knows something is up but he’s not quite sure what it is. Quickly I schooled my expressions and removed the pump nozzle from the gas tank, sliding into the front seat of Baby and turning the ignition over.

Sammy folded himself into the passenger seat, depositing the bags of road food on the floorboard between us. I began to drive, keeping my facial expressions neutral and my eyes on the road despite the happy fullness I felt deep in my chest. He studied me for a long moment before he began to speak. “Who was on the phone?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“At the station?” I asked and looked over at him. He nodded. “That was just a telemarketer. Told ‘em this was an emergency number and they were interfering with federal business. They hung up.” I mustered all the nonchalance I could, but I could feel he wasn’t buying the thin excuse.

“Really?” He asked with a dubious look on his face.

“Really.” 

He continued looking at me, but let it drop after a few minutes. Clearing his throat, Sam began to speak again. “Hey good work with the perfume bottle earlier. How did you manage to connect lilac to the ghost?”

“Well like I said, when she appeared all I could smell was Lilac and decay. I only remembered the lilac because mom had a bush planted next to the house, and on summer nights the breeze would carry it in my windows.” I cleared my throat. “Then I thought, the only way that smell would emanate from her after she died was because she obviously really enjoyed the aroma. So she was either going to be tied to an old lilac bush, a specific perfume she preferred to wear, or a vase for the fresh cut flowers. There were no lilacs outside, and all the vases in the room were cheap reproductions for the museum. Only other thing could have been a perfume bottle.” 

“Nice deductions there Sherlock,” he chuckled.

“Well what can I say,” I smirked as returned my attention to the road.

“You know what I’m deducing?” He asked with a smart ass tone.

“Yeah Sammy, what’s that?”

“I’m deducing that by the direction we’re headed and the phone call a few minutes ago we are going back to New Orleans because someone has it bad for a certain damsel in distress he saved last night.” Sam was looking at me with a bemused look, a ghost of a smile lighting his features, his eyes crinkling with mirth. 

I tried to ignore the barb, but he knew how to push my buttons. “Yes, we’re going back to NOLA, but I do not have it bad for a damsel in distress.” I tried to stop myself from giving him any more ammunition, but I couldn’t control myself. “Also I didn’t save her. She was drunk and I merely helped her back to her motel room, which just so happened to be a couple doors down from ours.” My voice rose several octaves as I found myself becoming more defensive. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m just giving you shit, Dean.” He looked at me like I had grown another head. “Listen I’m sure there’s a case or two we could knock out while you’re visiting your new...lady friend.” He smirked at me wiggling his eyebrows.

“She is not a lady friend,” I ground out. I wasn’t sure why I was so exasperated with him. Maybe because everything he was saying was true? Sam reached over to the radio switching on my Bob Seger tape.

“Mmhmm. Sure.”

“Shut up, Sam,” I said in my most irritated voice. As the chorus of “Night Moves” started up I let out a groan. “Oh come on, dude. Don’t Night Moves me...I was being a gentleman….” I rolled my eyes.

He let out a thunderous belly laugh and turned back toward the windshield as the breeze caught his long hair, whipping it around his face. “Just...be careful, okay, Dean? You know as well as I do that we can’t have it all. You can’t drag her into this life with us… Just...try not to get too attached.” He finished quietly.

“I know, Sammy.” I heaved a sigh. “I know.” I just met the girl and I was already feeling like some lovesick puppy. Not going to lie, having someone to come home to, someone to stick by you through thick and thin, World War III or the apocalypse, sounded really nice. But Sammy was right. I was going to have to end this before it even started. I refused to pull her into this god forsaken life; but I also wasn’t going to string her along, leaving her hoping and waiting for me to return when I could...if ever. After tonight, I told myself, I’ll end it after tonight.

Claityn POV

I was finishing up the last coat of mascara when a heavy knock sounded at the door causing me to jump. The sudden movement sent the wand into my eye effectively blinding me momentarily. “God dammit!” I cursed.

“Claityn, you okay?” Dean called through the locked motel room door as he wiggled the doorknob.

Blinking I capped the tube and rushed over to the doorway, unbolting it to let him enter the small room. “I’m fine,” I said nonchalantly as I turned to retrieve my coat, still blinking the tears away. “Accidentally tried to remove my eye with the mascara wand.” I grinned at him hoping it would ease his worries. He raised his hand and gently laid the pad of his thumb along my lower lash line, rubbing it lightly in the direction of my cheekbone. My breath hitched, and he quickly dropped his hand away.

“Ahem...Y-you uh, had a little…” he trailed off motioning to his own eye. Mortification overcame me as I inwardly groaned to myself. Of fucking course.

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly as I let my eyes slowly roam over his body. He was as tall as I remembered, and his shoulders were just as broad; but his hair was slightly lighter, closer to a sandy brown than a dark brown like I originally thought. His eyes, though. They were as green as I remembered them, an unreal shade of emerald completely unique to him.

When I stopped my perusement of his person, I noticed he was smiling down at me. His perfect white teeth gleaming behind his plump mouth and eyes crinkling with amusement. “Like what you see, sweetheart,” he asked as he cocked an eyebrow.

I schooled my features into indifference, narrowing my eyes and pursing my lips as I tapped my index finger against my chin. After a moment, I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m really not sure,” I said coolly, “ask me again later.” I shot him a wink and slid past him out the door and into the parking lot of the cheap motel. Dean snorted a laugh behind me, as I started surveying the lot. Old Faithful, my 1977 Firebird Trans Am, was sitting in the space in front of my room; and a few spaces down sat the Impala I saw the night before when Dean helped me back to the motel. Absentmindedly, I meandered toward the driver side door when I heard Dean call over to me.

“What are you doing, Claityn?” He raised an amused eyebrow and wandered back toward me.

Letting my hand drop from the door handle I motioned toward the Trans Am. “I assumed we’d take my car…” 

His chin dropped toward his chest as his eyes widened and a look of disbelief crossed his face. “You...You own this?...This is your car?...” He motioned toward the sleek vehicle, eyes blinking rapidly. “A mint condition 77 Firebird Trans Am?...” The look of shock never left his face as he attempted to make sense of this new information, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

I covered my mouth with my hand to hide the bemusement welling up inside me. His face was priceless! Usually when males find out what I drive, they either condescend to me as if I don’t know anything or they become so starstruck by the car they can’t think straight. Dean fell into the latter category. “Yes, I do.” I answered with a proud smirk on my face.

“This...this was Bandit’s car. W-well obviously not Bandit’s car but one exactly like it…” His eyes kept sliding along the body of my vehicle as he trailed off, eyes alighting first on the golden eagle adorning the hood then the roof. “It’s even a t-top.” He looked close to tears now.

Rounding the car I met him where he stood at the fender. He looked at me like he may cry; I never understood why guys got so worked up over cars. “Dean, you doing okay?” I asked with a chuckle. He simply nodded. I ran my hand down his arm and entwined my fingers with his. Turning I tugged him away toward the other end of the parking lot glancing at him over my shoulder. “Maybe we should just take your car? I’d hate for you to get tear stains all over my interior,” I tried for the joke hoping he’d bite.

He laughed, following me as we meandered toward his car. “So, which one is yours.”

Dean pointed toward the Impala, it’s onyx exterior gleaming in the fading sunlight. “Wow, she’s beautiful.” I said in adoration. “Why didn’t you tell me last night it was yours when I brought it up?” Looking over at him I smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “I probably wouldn’t have let you talk me out of sex.”

Dean’s mouth hung agape, his eyes narrowed as he processed what I said. Still smirking I slid into the passenger side of the 67 model Impala. After a few moments I slid across the bench seat to his window, rolling it down to get a better look at him. “You know,” I began, “you may want to either get in the car so we can go or shut your mouth. A June bug might fly in there.”

Coughing, Dean began to rub the back of his neck as he folded his large frame into the driver’s seat as I re-positioned myself on my side of the car. “Not for nothing, Claityn, but you’re so fucking cool.” He said matter-of-factly as he started the car and we pulled around the parking lot. I looked over at him with the widest smile I’d had in nearly three weeks. His eyes met mine, and in their depths I saw an echo of what I was feeling for the first time in five years. Possibility.


End file.
